


you could go (home)

by cnomad



Series: cnomad prompts [3]
Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Episode: s03e15 Eddie Begins, Hospitals, Hurt Eddie Diaz, M/M, Missing Scene, POV Evan "Buck" Buckley, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:41:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25656829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cnomad/pseuds/cnomad
Summary: Buck doesn’t tell anyone this, but he thinks his apartment is kind of pretentious. Not to mention at this moment it's achingly empty.He’d rather be here, sitting next to Eddie’s hospital bed, holding his hand.
Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV)
Series: cnomad prompts [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1855642
Comments: 18
Kudos: 207





	you could go (home)

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the song [Medicine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lrulQAZq7Y8) by _Daughter_.
> 
> This fic was written to fill the tumblr prompt from [theatrevicki](https://theatrevicki.tumblr.com/): “I thought you were dead.”

It’s quiet in the hospital room, the lighting sterile and cold. Whoever designed the place must have known that, wanted to combat it—the walls are a pale blue, the sheets a warm gray, and around the room are a handful of framed pieces of art. It’s clear that they’ve tried, so hard, to make this space inviting, _comforting_ even, for the people trapped inside. 

It doesn’t work. 

Buck is perched on an uncomfortable chair that he dragged from the corner of the room so that he can sit here, right next to the bed. Eddie is in front of him, hooked up to a half dozen different monitors and IV bags. He’s buried beneath what looks like a mountain of blankets. The doctors and nurses all want to keep him warm—had tutted when they first saw his temperature from out in the field and seen how slowly it had raised in the time it’d taken the 118 to get him here. It’s nothing to worry about, they assured Pepa—who had come on her own, without Chris who is at home with Eddie’s Abuela, because everyone agreed it was better not to scare him when his dad was already out of the woods—just something they wanted to monitor. They wanted to keep him overnight, wanted to manage his fluids, and watch his temperature and make sure there were no nasty surprises waiting around the corner. 

Visiting hours are long past ended and Pepa had gone home after she’d gotten the chance to check in on Eddie. Hen and Chimney had lingered for a bit, but eventually they had drifted away back to their homes, to Maddie and Karen. Unsurprisingly, Bobby stayed the longest. His fingers had curled around Buck’s shoulder, tightening and loosening as they sat in that waiting room. The doctors wouldn’t tell them anything, not directly, so they’d been forced to wait for whatever parcel of information Pepa was willing to share. Bobby had gone in to sit with Eddie for a short while, his nerves clearly on edge after believing Eddie was dead and gone, but he too had eventually gone home to Athena. Everyone had someone to go home to.

But not Buck. 

There was no one waiting for him at his apartment, no partner to hold his hand or stroke his hair or warm his bed. If he went home there would only be silence and shadows, filling the emptiness of his loft. He didn’t even think of it as home, not really. When he’d signed the lease he’d had these ideas of a future with Ali—they’d made clear to the realtor that she wasn’t signing it with him, but Buck couldn’t deny that he’d imagined some near distant future where she’d move in with him. So that it would become their space together, her books on his shelves, his clothes hanging with hers, their groceries shared. She’d loved the place, had swooned over the large windows and the lofted bedroom. 

He thought it was a little pretentious. All that exposed brick and hanging Edison light bulbs. The giant windows were great to look at until you realized they were streaked with filth because the property managers didn’t bother to clean them and Buck certainly had no way of reaching the outside since they didn’t actually open. The feature he liked best was the bike mount that a previous tenant had installed, and that had nothing to do with the architectural build of the actual apartment. But he’d signed the lease. And after he’d been there for a year, he renewed it. Because where else was Buck supposed to go? 

So there’s no one to go home to, is the thing. His apartment has nothing waiting for him, and his real home— _Eddie’s_ home—is empty, because Chris is at his Abuela’s and Eddie is here. Right in front of him. Hooked up to these machines and steadily breathing with no regard for how much of a fucking miracle it is that he’s alive. And it’s after hours, but Buck has sweet-talked the nurse into letting him stay back—he’d recognized Buck from all of his previous stays. 

Eddie looks…peaceful, actually. For someone who was buried beneath thirty feet of mud, there’s not much to show for it. His face is a little cut up—but just a little. A cut on his jaw and his chin and little scrape across the bridge of his nose. Nothing to write home about. There are bruises, of course, and there are circles under his eyes. 

Eddie’s eyes, with their haunted expression, which are slowly blinking awake. 

“Hey,” Buck whispers, leaning forward and stretching out his hand, his fingertips brushing against the edge of Eddie’s palm. His hand unfurls easily and Buck laces his fingers with Eddie’s. “Hey, how are you feeling?” 

“’m’okay,” he slurs, his face turned towards Buck, his cheek nuzzling against the plush of the hospital pillow. 

Buck laughs softly and squeezes his hand. Eddie squeezes back. His voice pitched low, he says, “Sure you are, buddy. Only you would get buried under thirty feet of mud and come out of it okay.” 

Eddie’s brow pulls together, the adorable scrunch above his nose making an appearance. It makes Buck grin, his head ducking down as he stares at their joined hands where his thumb is stroking over Eddie’s knuckles. Eddie blinks again, still looking rumpled from sleep, and says, “Wha’time is’t?” 

He shrugs. “I dunno, man, it’s late. Go back to sleep.” 

On any other day Eddie would argue—he’d sit up in the bed and glare at Buck, lecture him about not taking care of himself. But tonight he’s exhausted, all the energy drained from him. So instead he burrows his head deeper into the pillow, his fingers still curled loosely around Buck’s. He gives a quiet little sigh, his eyes fluttering closed, and seems to be speaking. 

His voice is so quiet, Buck has to scooch forward in his chair. He doesn’t let go of Eddie’s hand as he leans in, lets the question roll over him. 

“What’re you still doin’ here?” Eddie breathes, his voice barely above a whisper.

Buck could easily give any number of answers—because he knows how lonely a hospital room can get. Because he didn’t want to face his empty apartment alone. Because he was still terrified that something was going to go wrong. Because he wanted to be able to promise Chris that he’d watched over his dad. They’re all true—not a single one of those explanations is a lie, and Eddie would accept them readily. There was no reason for why he shouldn’t. 

But Eddie is drifting back to sleep, and Buck can see the way his eyelashes are settling on his cheeks, heavy and weighed down by the heft of his fatigue. If he waits just a minute more—

_There._

Eddie’s breathing grows even and his fingers fall lax. He is asleep. Buck could let it be, could go back to scrolling through his phone. Instead he leans further forward and brings their joined hands to his face. He brushes his lips over the curve of Eddie’s knuckles and holds his hand there, steady. It feels like his stomach has bottomed out, like the words are scratching to stay choked down. But Buck forces them out anyway, his voice rough, his eyes wet. 

“I thought you were _dead_.” 

He hadn’t admitted to it earlier—not even to himself. The well had collapsed in on itself, and Buck had thrown himself on top of the wet mud, his gloves slipping between the muck as he tried to dig Eddie out with his hands. It was…irrational and ludicrous and desperate and a little sad. Buck could recognize that now, sitting here in this hospital room several hours removed from the agony that had gripped him in those moments. 

Bobby had stopped him, and the others had reassured him that Eddie would be okay, that they still had faith. And Buck had put on a brave face—had demanded they dig him out, had refused to give up. 

But Eddie had felt so far away in those minutes. Unreachable. Unknowable. 

It didn’t feel… _real_ to Buck, as they stood in that circle, Bobby calling out orders. Hen’s hand had been wrapped around his wrist, her fingers pressed to his pulse point, and he knew that his heart was racing. He was sure—so terrifyingly sure—that they were going to fail. That it was too late. 

That Eddie was already dead. 

He wasn’t, thank _fuck_ , he was alive and he was there within moments collapsing in front of them and then he was in Buck’s arms, Eddie’s hand gripped tight in Buck’s just like it is now, and it had been wonderful and unbelievable. But it didn’t erase those harrowing minutes when Buck had been preparing—

For what, he didn’t want to admit to himself, but it was there, in the deep recesses of his brain. It would remain there forever. The knowledge that there had been a moment when he had been thinking about how he would explain it to Christopher—how he had had the line in his hands, had felt Eddie’s weight, and then lost it. And then failed him. 

He presses another gentle kiss to Eddie’s knuckles and lets a tear slide down his cheek.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this story feel free to follow me at [my tumblr](http://cinematicnomad.tumblr.com/) where I post way too much and sometimes fill fic prompts and make gifsets. Leave your thoughts in the comments below and thanks for reading!


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